Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley, Russell Square, London. (Free.—Pitt Crawley.)
MY DEAREST, SWEETEST AMELIA, With what mingled1 joy and sorrow do I take up the pen to write to my dearest friend! Oh, what a change between to-day and yesterday! Now I am friendless and alone; yesterday I was at home, in the sweet company of a sister, whom I shall ever, ever cherish! I will not tell you in what tears and sadness I passed the fatal night in which I separated from you. YOU went on Tuesday to joy and happiness, with your mother and your devoted2 young soldier by your side; and I thought of you all night, dancing at the Perkins’s, the prettiest, I am sure, of all the young ladies at the Ball. I was brought by the groom3 in the old carriage to Sir Pitt Crawley’s town house, where, after John the groom had behaved most rudely and insolently4 to me (alas! ’twas safe to insult poverty and misfortune!), I was given over to Sir P.’s care, and made to pass the night in an old gloomy bed, and by the side of a horrid5 gloomy old charwoman, who keeps the house. I did not sleep one single wink6 the whole night. Sir Pitt is not what we silly girls, when we used to read Cecilia at Chiswick, imagined a baronet must have been. Anything, indeed, less like Lord Orville cannot be imagined. Fancy an old, stumpy, short, vulgar, and very dirty man, in old clothes and shabby old gaiters, who smokes a horrid pipe, and cooks his own horrid supper in a saucepan. He speaks with a country accent, and swore a great deal at the old charwoman, at the hackney coachman who drove us to the inn where the coach went from, and on which I made the journey outside for the greater part of the way. I was awakened7 at daybreak by the charwoman, and having arrived at the inn, was at first placed inside the coach. But, when we got to a place called Leakington, where the rain began to fall very heavily—will you believe it?—I was forced to come outside; for Sir Pitt is a proprietor8 of the coach, and as a passenger came at Mudbury, who wanted an inside place, I was obliged to go outside in the rain, where, however, a young gentleman from Cambridge College sheltered me very kindly9 in one of his several great coats. This gentleman and the guard seemed to know Sir Pitt very well, and laughed at him a great deal. They both agreed in calling him an old screw; which means a very stingy, avaricious10 person. He never gives any money to anybody, they said (and this meanness I hate); and the young gentleman made me remark that we drove very slow for the last two stages on the road, because Sir Pitt was on the box, and because he is proprietor of the horses for this part of the journey. “But won’t I flog ’em on to Squashmore, when I take the ribbons?” said the young Cantab. “And sarve ’em right, Master Jack11,” said the guard. When I comprehended the meaning of this phrase, and that Master Jack intended to drive the rest of the way, and revenge himself on Sir Pitt’s horses, of course I laughed too. A carriage and four splendid horses, covered with armorial bearings, however, awaited us at Mudbury, four miles from Queen’s Crawley, and we made our entrance to the baronet’s park in state. There is a fine avenue of a mile long leading to the house, and the woman at the lodge12-gate (over the pillars of which are a serpent and a dove, the supporters of the Crawley arms), made us a number of curtsies as she flung open the old iron carved doors, which are something like those at odious13 Chiswick. “There’s an avenue,” said Sir Pitt, “a mile long. There’s six thousand pound of timber in them there trees. Do you call that nothing?” He pronounced avenue —evenue, and nothing—nothink, so droll14; and he had a Mr. Hodson, his hind15 from Mudbury, into the carriage with him, and they talked about distraining, and selling up, and draining and subsoiling, and a great deal about tenants16 and farming—much more than I could understand. Sam Miles had been caught poaching, and Peter Bailey had gone to the workhouse at last. “Serve him right,” said Sir Pitt; “him and his family has been cheating me on that farm these hundred and fifty years.” Some old tenant17, I suppose, who could not pay his rent. Sir Pitt might have said “he and his family,” to be sure; but rich baronets do not need to be careful about grammar, as poor governesses must be. As we passed, I remarked a beautiful church-spire rising above some old elms in the park; and before them, in the midst of a lawn, and some outhouses, an old red house with tall chimneys covered with ivy18, and the windows shining in the sun. “Is that your church, sir?” I said. “Yes, hang it,” (said Sir Pitt, only he used, dear, a much wickeder word); “how’s Buty, Hodson? Buty’s my brother Bute, my dear—my brother the parson. Buty and the Beast I call him, ha, ha!” Hodson laughed too, and then looking more grave and nodding his head, said, “I’m afraid he’s better, Sir Pitt. He was out on his pony20 yesterday, looking at our corn.” “Looking after his tithes21, hang’un (only he used the same wicked word). Will brandy and water never kill him? He’s as tough as old whatdyecallum—old Methusalem.” Mr. Hodson laughed again. “The young men is home from college. They’ve whopped John Scroggins till he’s well nigh dead.” “Whop my second keeper!” roared out Sir Pitt. “He was on the parson’s ground, sir,” replied Mr. Hodson; and Sir Pitt in a fury swore that if he ever caught ’em poaching on his ground, he’d transport ’em, by the lord he would. However, he said, “I’ve sold the presentation of the living, Hodson; none of that breed shall get it, I war’nt”; and Mr. Hodson said he was quite right: and I have no doubt from this that the two brothers are at variance—as brothers often are, and sisters too. Don’t you remember the two Miss Scratchleys at Chiswick, how they used always to fight and quarrel—and Mary Box, how she was always thumping22 Louisa? Presently, seeing two little boys gathering23 sticks in the wood, Mr. Hodson jumped out of the carriage, at Sir Pitt’s order, and rushed upon them with his whip. “Pitch into ’em, Hodson,” roared the baronet; “flog their little souls out, and bring ’em up to the house, the vagabonds; I’ll commit ’em as sure as my name’s Pitt.” And presently we heard Mr. Hodson’s whip cracking on the shoulders of the poor little blubbering wretches24, and Sir Pitt, seeing that the malefactors were in custody25, drove on to the hall.
All the servants were ready to meet us, and . . .
Here, my dear, I was interrupted last night by a dreadful thumping at my door: and who do you think it was? Sir Pitt Crawley in his night-cap and dressing- gown, such a figure! As I shrank away from such a visitor, he came forward and seized my candle. “No candles after eleven o’clock, Miss Becky,” said he. “Go to bed in the dark, you pretty little hussy” (that is what he called me), “and unless you wish me to come for the candle every night, mind and be in bed at eleven.” And with this, he and Mr. Horrocks the butler went off laughing. You may be sure I shall not encourage any more of their visits. They let loose two immense bloodhounds at night, which all last night were yelling and howling at the moon. “I call the dog Gorer,” said Sir Pitt; “he’s killed a man that dog has, and is master of a bull, and the mother I used to call Flora26; but now I calls her Aroarer, for she’s too old to bite. Haw, haw!” Before the house of Queen’s Crawley, which is an odious old-fashioned red brick mansion27, with tall chimneys and gables of the style of Queen Bess, there is a terrace flanked by the family dove and serpent, and on which the great hall-door opens. And oh, my dear, the great hall I am sure is as big and as glum28 as the great hall in the dear castle of Udolpho. It has a large fireplace, in which we might put half Miss Pinkerton’s school, and the grate is big enough to roast an ox at the very least. Round the room hang I don’t know how many generations of Crawleys, some with beards and ruffs, some with huge wigs29 and toes turned out, some dressed in long straight stays and gowns that look as stiff as towers, and some with long ringlets, and oh, my dear! scarcely any stays at all. At one end of the hall is the great staircase all in black oak, as dismal30 as may be, and on either side are tall doors with stags’ heads.over them, leading to the billiard-room and the library, and the great yellow saloon and the morning-rooms. I think there are at least twenty bedrooms on the first floor; one of them has the bed in which Queen Elizabeth slept; and I have been taken by my new pupils through all these fine apartments this morning. They are not rendered less gloomy, I promise you, by having the shutters31 always shut; and there is scarce one of the apartments, but when the light was let into it, I expected to see a ghost in the room. We have a schoolroom on the second floor, with my bedroom leading into it on one side, and that of the young ladies on the other. Then there are Mr. Pitt’s apartments—Mr. Crawley, he is called—the eldest32 son, and Mr. Rawdon Crawley’s rooms —he is an officer like somebody, and away with his regiment33. There is no want of room I assure you. You might lodge all the people in Russell Square in the house, I think, and have space to spare.
Half an hour after our arrival, the great dinner-bell was rung, and I came down with my two pupils (they are very thin insignificant34 little chits of ten and eight years old). I came down in your dear muslin gown (about which that odious Mrs. Pinner was so rude, because you gave it me); for I am to be treated as one of the family, except on company days, when the young ladies and I are to dine upstairs.
Well, the great dinner-bell rang, and we all assembled in the little drawing-room where my Lady Crawley sits. She is the second Lady Crawley, and mother of the young ladies. She was an ironmonger’s daughter, and her marriage was thought a great match. She looks as if she had been handsome once, and her eyes are always weeping for the loss of her beauty. She is pale and meagre and high-shouldered, and has not a word to say for herself, evidently. Her stepson Mr. Crawley, was likewise in the room. He was in full dress, as pompous35 as an undertaker. He is pale, thin, ugly, silent; he has thin legs, no chest, hay-coloured whiskers, and straw- coloured hair. He is the very picture of his sainted mother over the mantelpiece—Griselda of the noble house of Binkie.
“This is the new governess, Mr. Crawley,” said Lady Crawley, coming forward and taking my hand. “Miss Sharp.”
“0!” said Mr. Crawley, and pushed his head once forward and began again to read a great pamphlet with which he was busy.
“I hope you will be kind to my girls,” said Lady Crawley, with her pink eyes always full of tears.
“Law, Ma, of course she will,” said the eldest: and I saw at a glance that I need not be afraid of that woman. “My lady is served,” says the butler in black, in an immense white shirt-frill, that looked as if it had been one of the Queen Elizabeth’s ruffs depicted36 in the hall; and so, taking Mr. Crawley’s arm, she led the way to the dining-room, whither I followed with my little pupils in each hand.
Sir Pitt was already in the room with a silver jug37. He had just been to the cellar, and was in full dress too; that is, he had taken his gaiters off, and showed his little dumpy legs in black worsted stockings. The sideboard was covered with glistening38 old plate—old cups, both gold and silver; old salvers and cruet-stands, like Rundell and Bridge’s shop. Everything on the table was in silver too, and two footmen, with red hair and canary- coloured liveries, stood on either side of the sideboard.
Mr. Crawley said a long grace, and Sir Pitt said amen, and the great silver dish-covers were removed.
“What have we for dinner, Betsy?’ said the Baronet.
“Mutton broth19, I believe, Sir Pitt,” answered Lady Crawley.
“Mouton aux navets,” added the butler gravely (pronounce, if you please, moutongonavvy); “and the soup is potage de mouton a l’Ecossaise. The side-dishes contain pommes de terre au naturel, and choufleur a l’eau.”
“Mutton’s mutton,” said the Baronet, “and a devilish good thing. What ship was it, Horrocks, and when did you kill?”
“One of the black-faced Scotch39, Sir Pitt: we killed on Thursday.
“Who took any?”
“Steel, of Mudbury, took the saddle and two legs, Sir Pitt; but he says the last was too young and confounded woolly, Sir Pitt.”
“Will you take some potage, Miss ah—Miss Blunt? said Mr. Crawley.
“Capital Scotch broth, my dear,” said Sir Pitt, “though they call it by a French name.”
“I believe it is the custom, sir, in decent society,” said Mr. Crawley, haughtily40, “to call the dish as I have called it”; and it was served to us on silver soup plates by the
footmen in the canary coats, with the mouton aux navets. Then “ale and water” were brought, and served to us young ladies in wine-glasses. I am not a judge of ale, but I can say with a clear conscience I prefer water.
While we were enjoying our repast, Sir Pitt took occasion to ask what had become of the shoulders of the mutton.
“I believe they were eaten in the servants’ hall,” said my lady, humbly41.
“They was, my lady,” said Horrocks, “and precious little else we get there neither.”
Sir Pitt burst into a horse-laugh, and continued his conversation with Mr. Horrocks. “That there little black pig of the Kent sow’s breed must be uncommon42 fat now.”
“It’s not quite busting43, Sir Pitt,” said the butler with the gravest air, at which Sir Pitt, and with him the young ladies, this time, began to laugh violently.
“Miss Crawley, Miss Rose Crawley,” said Mr. Crawley, “your laughter strikes me as being exceedingly out of place.”
“Never mind, my lord,” said the Baronet, “we’ll try the porker on Saturday. Kill un on Saturday morning, John Horrocks. Miss Sharp adores pork, don’t you, Miss Sharp?”
And I think this is all the conversation that I remember at dinner. When the repast was concluded a jug of hot water was placed before Sir Pitt, with a case-bottle containing, I believe, rum. Mr. Horrocks served myself and my pupils with three little glasses of wine, and a bumper44 was poured out for my lady. When we retired45, she took from her work-drawer an enormous interminable piece of knitting; the young ladies began to play at cribbage with a dirty pack of cards. We had but one candle lighted, but it was in a magnificent old silver candlestick, and after a very few questions from my lady, I had my choice of amusement between a volume of sermons, and a pamphlet on the corn-laws, which Mr. Crawley had been reading before dinner.
So we sat for an hour until steps were heard.
“Put away the cards, girls,” cried my lady, in a great tremor46; “put down Mr. Crawley’s books, Miss Sharp”; and these orders had been scarcely obeyed, when Mr. Crawley entered the room.
“We will resume yesterday’s discourse47, young ladies,” said he, “and you shall each read a page by turns; so that Miss a—Miss Short may have an opportunity of hearing you”; and the poor girls began to spell a long dismal sermon delivered at Bethesda Chapel48, Liverpool, on behalf of the mission for the Chickasaw Indians. Was it not a charming evening?
At ten the servants were told to call Sir Pitt and the household to prayers. Sir Pitt came in first, very much flushed, and rather unsteady in his gait; and after him the butler, the canaries, Mr. Crawley’s man, three other men, smelling very much of the stable, and four women, one of whom, I remarked, was very much overdressed, and who flung me a look of great scorn as she plumped down on her knees.
After Mr. Crawley had done haranguing49 and expounding50, we received our candles, and then we went to bed; and then I was disturbed in my writing, as I have described to my dearest sweetest Amelia.
Good night. A thousand, thousand, thousand kisses!
Saturday.—This morning, at five, I heard the shrieking51 of the little black pig. Rose and Violet introduced me to it yesterday; and to the stables, and to the kennel52, and to the gardener, who was picking fruit to send to market, and from whom they begged hard a bunch of hot-house grapes; but he said that Sir Pitt had numbered every “Man Jack” of them, and it would be as much as his place was worth to give any away. The darling girls caught a colt in a paddock, and asked me if I would ride, and began to ride themselves, when the groom, coming with horrid oaths, drove them away.
Lady Crawley is always knitting the worsted. Sir Pitt is always tipsy, every night; and, I believe, sits with Horrocks, the butler. Mr. Crawley always reads sermons in the evening, and in the morning is locked up in his study, or else rides to Mudbury, on county business, or to Squashmore, where he preaches, on Wednesdays and Fridays, to the tenants there.
A hundred thousand grateful loves to your dear papa and mamma. Is your poor brother recovered of his rack- punch? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! How men should beware of wicked punch!
Ever and ever thine own
REBECCA
Everything considered, I think it is quite as well for our dear Amelia Sedley, in Russell Square, that Miss Sharp and she are parted. Rebecca is a droll funny creature, to be sure; and those descriptions of the poor lady weeping for the loss of her beauty, and the gentleman “with hay-coloured whiskers and straw-coloured hair,” are very smart, doubtless, and show a great knowledge of the world. That she might, when on her knees, have been thinking of something better than Miss Horrocks’s ribbons, has possibly struck both of us. But my kind reader will please to remember that this history has “Vanity Fair” for a title, and that Vanity Fair is a very vain, wicked, foolish place, full of all sorts of humbugs53 and falsenesses and pretensions54. And while the moralist, who is holding forth55 on the cover ( an accurate portrait of your humble56 servant), professes57 to wear neither gown nor bands, but only the very same long- eared livery in which his congregation is arrayed: yet, look you, one is bound to speak the truth as far as one knows it, whether one mounts a cap and bells or a shovel58 hat; and a deal of disagreeable matter must come out in the course of such an undertaking59.
I have heard a brother of the story-telling trade, at Naples, preaching to a pack of good-for-nothing honest lazy fellows by the sea-shore, work himself up into such a rage and passion with some of the villains60 whose wicked deeds he was describing and inventing, that the audience could not resist it; and they and the poet together would burst out into a roar of oaths and execrations against the fictitious62 monster of the tale, so that the hat went round, and the bajocchi tumbled into it, in the midst of a perfect storm of sympathy.
At the little Paris theatres, on the other hand, you will not only hear the people yelling out “Ah gredin! Ah monstre:” and cursing the tyrant63 of the play from the boxes; but the actors themselves positively64 refuse to play the wicked parts, such as those of infames Anglais, brutal65 Cossacks, and what not, and prefer to appear at a smaller salary, in their real characters as loyal Frenchmen. I set the two stories one against the other, so that you may see that it is not from mere66 mercenary motives67 that the present performer is desirous to show up and trounce his villains; but because he has a sincere hatred68 of them, which he cannot keep down, and which must find a vent61 in suitable abuse and bad language.
I warn my “kyind friends,” then, that I am going to tell a story of harrowing villainy and complicated—but, as I trust, intensely interesting—crime. My rascals69 are no milk-and-water rascals, I promise you. When we come to the proper places we won’t spare fine language—No, no! But when we are going over the quiet country we must perforce be calm. A tempest in a slop-basin is absurd. We will reserve that sort of thing for the mighty70 ocean and the lonely midnight. The present Chapter is very mild. Others—But we will not anticipate those.
And, as we bring our characters forward, I will ask leave, as a man and a brother, not only to introduce them, but occasionally to step down from the platform, and talk about them: if they are good and kindly, to love them and shake them by the hand: if they are silly, to laugh at them confidentially71 in the reader’s sleeve: if they are wicked and heartless, to abuse them in the strongest terms which politeness admits of.
Otherwise you might fancy it was I who was sneering72 at the practice of devotion, which Miss Sharp finds so ridiculous; that it was I who laughed good-humouredly at the reeling old Silenus of a baronet—whereas the laughter comes from one who has no reverence73 except for prosperity, and no eye for anything beyond success. Such people there are living and flourishing in the world —Faithless, Hopeless, Charityless: let us have at them, dear friends, with might and main. Some there are, and very successful too, mere quacks74 and fools: and it was to combat and expose such as those, no doubt, that Laughter was made.
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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custody
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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busting
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| 打破，打碎( bust的现在分词 )； 突击搜查（或搜捕）； （使）降级，降低军阶 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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51
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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52
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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53
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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54
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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60
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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quacks
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| abbr.quacksalvers 庸医，骗子(16世纪习惯用水银或汞治疗梅毒的人)n.江湖医生( quack的名词复数 )；江湖郎中；（鸭子的）呱呱声v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的第三人称单数 ) | |
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